The Choice
by Jennie Exell
Summary: AWE SPOILERS – The Former Admiral James Norrington has a decision to make.


**AN 1:** This is the second story in what's turning out to be a series of small stories setting up the Pirates universe as I see it after AWE. Its set three months after the end of the _movie_, (not the final scene after the credits) and about 10 months before _Assumptions_.

**AN 2**: Scott Timmons is actually the name of a character from the Australian Soap "Neighbours" who died (the character, not the actor); by UK viewing the day I wrote this. So I guess you could say he isn't mine.

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****The Choice**

The last thing James Norrington remembered clearly before - well before ending up wherever he was – was the face of Davey Jones looming above him, and the scream of Elizabeth Swann ringing in his ears. Then nothing, before he woke, here, where-ever here was.

It was peculiar to say the least. He'd woken floating in the sea, how he could have 'woken up' floating at sea was as big a mystery as how he was awake at all. From his experience when a man looses consciousness in the water, he would usually sink, and then unfortunately, drown. But then again, from his experience, men who have been skewered didn't tend to survive very long either.

But that wasn't the end of the strangeness, not by a long chalk. No, things became even more logic defying and baffling because _he kept falling asleep! _So he had not just woken up once to find himself floating, but several times, and always under a crystal clear star studded sky.

Even that wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't for the fact that he always seemed to wake under the same stars! Surely by now he would have made _some_ progress. It was with that realisation, that despite swimming with all his might for as long as he could stay awake, he was getting absolutely no-where, combined with the fact that he never seemed to be hungry and nothing really seemed real, that comprehension dawned. He. Was. Dead.

That at least helped in explaining the mysteries that plagued him when he'd first arrived. He wasn't dying of his wounds or drowning, because he had already died of his wounds, and considering the likelihood he was tossed overboard, had he still been alive, he would have drowned. Working out that you weren't dying because you were dead was a little mind bending at first, but it was relatively neat thinking and stopped his head from hurting.

Because that was the trouble when all you did all day was swim, you had far too much time to think, and reflect. Only trouble was, he wasn't too keen on many of the paths his thoughts travelled down during these seemingly endless days. Every decision he'd ever made seemed to come back to haunt him. The what if's circling like gulls around a wreck. And if not _What if_, it was something else that would haunt him. People mainly, Elizabeth, Governor Swann, hell even the impetuous William Turner. Had she survived? What role did he play in his death? Had his jealousy wrought misfortune on the undeserving?

Once upon a time he could have with clear conscience declared himself a good man, but now he couldn't. Now in his better moods he would declare himself unsure, and in his worst lows, only fit for the torments of hell. The lives of far too many weighed on his conscience for him to declare his soul free from sin and blame. And surely all the penitence in the world could not redeem a murderer, or one whose action lead to murder.

Tirelessly these thoughts swirled as he swam. Where he was going, he didn't know, all he knew was that he had to get some-where, had to do something to make some kind of amends, even if it was to spend eternity swimming in circles.

But some-how he didn't think so. Somehow he knew, beyond that seemingly unattainable horizon lay salvation. Or possibly damnation. Either way, at least he'd know.

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The look out had spotted him shortly after dawn, a tiny dot on the perpetually calm sea. They were what they came out here to find after all. Those who had strayed due to Jones' negligence. That's what the last month or so had been all about, finding those who were so completely lost and escorting them back to where they should be, giving those who needed it a nudge to make that final journey.

Raising his telescope, Captain William Turner of the Flying Dutchman peered out over the endless sea. There, the shape he'd been called to look at. It was definitely a lost soul. God knows they wouldn't find anything else floating around out here. Well apart from that one time with the barrel of a ginger ale and a chicken. He shook his head and refocused on the shape on the waves. It was definitely a man, a man in uniform from what he could see, an ungainly and gaudy uniform at that. East India Trading Company. One of Becket's men.

"Orders Captain?" A hoarse voice said from behind him.

Without turning, Will closed his telescope and gave his reply. "Get us along side and hook him out."

As his orders were shouted across the deck, and tasks assigned for their completion, Will moved from the quarter deck and down the steps to main deck. The shouting intensified as they drew close and crewman moved rapidly to get salvage hooks into position. If all the hooks missed, it would take hours for them to circle back and get close enough beside the man again.

A call went out as one man managed to hook the floating soul, then another and more crewmen scrambled over the side on lines to help the poor sodden wretch onboard. With a wet splat, like the sound of a dish cloth thrown in a sink, the soul finally hit the deck of the Dutchman. And didn't move.

Will pushed through the crowd of sailors to reach his new guest, and crouched next to the face down body. Grabbing one shoulder he flipped him over and only just caught the sharp indrawn breath behind him because of his own.

Glancing up at the assembled crew, he growled. "Back to work." Then he looked back at the man at his feet.

"I know him." Bootstrap said quietly from over Wills shoulder.

Will's hand settled on his swords, his fingers caressing the filigree in the hilt. "You should. You sent him down here."

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Sunsets in the realm below were strange creatures. For one they were never in the same place. The sun never travelled east to west there, it merely travelled to mark the course of day. You could use neither sun nor moon nor stars to navigate and there was no north to set your compass. Those that travelled the vast unending sea did so by their will alone. The Dutchman sailed at the command of her Captain, and all knew not to question the headings he gave; the flotillas of tiny boats that carried souls beyond knew where they were going, so did he.

Right now they were headed to the source, a place where all journeys began. Will stood on the railing of the foaksul deck, one hand gripping a line and stared off into the distance, to a point none aboard could see, but he knew was there. The sun was so low on the Horizon to his right that he could almost imagine he felt its blaze upon his skin, but of course he could not. The sun had no heat here, the night no chill and the wind no sting.

Behind him on the deck the crew was noisy as they prepared for the coming night. In amongst the crew, those who had sworn to serve, were the lost souls they had collected from the sea in the last weeks. Of those dozen or so souls they'd found in this foray, only one had chosen to serve rather than make the final voyage from the source to their final rest.

It wasn't enough. Will would never force anyone to serve, couldn't in fact; he was bound by the choices those offered a choice made, for good or ill. But once an oath was sworn he could release a soul from it at his discretion, and when he'd first taken over he'd had to. Some of the crew had been too far gone to serve in any capacity, too long had they languished as part of the ship. Others had simply been so worn down by Jones' tyranny that when he offered full reprieve to all who wished to move on, they'd taken it, preferring to face the final judgement they had been so eager to escape than remain on the sea. And some, the few Will didn't like to think about, had been unable to adapt to such a radical change in the methods and morals of their Captain.

The sun was almost set; behind him he knew the sky was filled with stars. He sighed. The result of so many released had been a woefully under-crewed Dutchman and more work for everyone who was still on board. He's thoughts were halted from straying to the various issues facing a Captain of a tired and overworked crew, when the shouts from the deck behind him changed in tone. Changed to alarm and anger.

Turning and leaping from the rail, it wasn't hard to see the cause of the disturbance. Most of the crew above decks were trying to subdue a figure in an ungainly and gaudy uniform. Unfortunately his crew had been caught off guard and most of them were unarmed. Jumping down to the main deck Will drew his own sword just as the figure pushed through the throng, his sword slashing without finesse, driven by the frustration and anger that had built up over the months trapped on the endless sea.

Their blades clashed loudly, stopping all of the angry soul's motion.

"Turner." The man spat angrily. "I should have known you'd be mixed up in this somewhere along the line."

"Stand down, Mr Norrington." Will countered. Out of the corner of his eye, Will spotted some of the crew edging forward only to be halted by his father, a softly spoken, _"best stay out of this one," _barely reaching his ears as he focussed on where his blade and Norrington's met.

"I'd rather not, _Mister_ Turner." Norrington hissed back. "And that's, my sword!" With a grunt of effort, Norrington pushed back on Will's blade forcing the Captain back and the pair to separate. "I'd have it back."

"You want to fight me over a sword." Will stated incredulously as they circled each other.

"Seems as good a reason as any." Norrington sneered. They parried, their swords clashing harshly.

Will ducked under a high lunge and under Norrington's arm, spinning to strike his opponent's back, but Norrington was a skilled swordsman and had been given the time cool his initial burning rage. Spinning he brought his blade up to parry Will's move.

The crew could only watch as their Captain and the new comer continued to duel, their moves coming thick and fast, but neither seeming to leave a mark on the other. The more proficient sword fighters amongst the crew would later note that at the beginning of the fight, it may as well have been straight out of a text book, it was so precise and in accordance to the rules of engagement.

But the clean fight didn't last long. Norrington struck the first blow, his elbow colliding with Will's nose.

Will shook off his daze rapidly and as Norrington's blade came down at him from above he held it at bay with his own, the two men standing now chest to chest, nose to nose, their blades crossed above them.

"Why do I get the feeling this isn't just about a sword." Will snarked, then pushed Norrington back.

"Maybe because it isn't." Norrington growled coming at Will again. "Maybe," their blades met. "It's about," he pulled back from a close swipe. "Every," _clash_ "Way," _twist_ "You've," _lunge_ "ruined" _parry_ "my" _feint_ "LIFE!"

With a sound that encompassed every pent up emotion possible to feel he drove forward and pushed his sword straight through Will Turner's chest. Or at least it should have been straight through his chest, Turner had been backed up against the main mast, there was no where for him to go. Peering around the mast, he saw him on the other side, peering back at him with a smug eyebrow raised. It was then that James Norrington finally saw two things. A scar across the other man's chest and a very familiar key on a cord around his neck.

Comprehension dawned. "That, Mr Turner, is cheating."

Taking advantage of Norrington's momentary distraction Will reached rapidly through the mast and grabbed the Naval Officer's shirt, pulling him sharply to head butt the solid wood. As the former Admiral James Norrington crumpled to the deck with a thud, Will was struck with an eerie sense of Déjà vu, and could think of one way to reply to the previous remark.

"Pirate."

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The former Admiral James Norrington woke with a headache. He also woke in what appeared to be a ship's brig, but that was less of a concern at the moment than the headache. With tentative fingers he reached up and felt his forehead, wincing as he barely brushed what had to be huge and ugly bruise.

Stiffly he tried to sit up and through narrowed eyes he once again tried to get his bearings. Yes he was definitely in a ships brig, a reasonably clean brig at that. In fact it had the feel of one newly installed and not yet overly used. The metal work still had that hint of shine wrought iron had before just a week at sea had left it tarnished.

Sitting up further he squinted passed his headache to see beyond the bars of his prison and spotted something he really wished he hadn't. William Turner.

"So it wasn't some fever driven nightmare then. Pity."

"You're awake." For some strange reason Turner's voice sounded wrong, stiffer than he remembered, and more grown up.

"Yes, thank you Mr Turner, I had noticed." James replied sarcastically. Then something jarred his memory. "Or is it Captain Turner now?... And if this is the part where you ask me if I fear death," he continued conversationally, as Turned opened the door to the cell and stood before him. "I have a funny feeling you're a little late." James paused as he realised Turner has actually asked him something while he rambled. "Sorry?"

"I asked if you could stand." Turner repeated.

James thought about it and realised, that if sitting up was anything to go by, in all likelihood he _could_ stand, but only if he climbed to that position using the bars of the cell and then hung on for grim death until the world stopped spinning. Instead of admitting this weakness, after all he still had his pride, he decided to stall.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to drag you above decks, and I'd rather have this discussion somewhere more comfortable than the brig." Turner replied seriously. "Wouldn't you?"

James tipped his head in acknowledgement and made to stand, if a bit unsteadily. He did end up having to use the bars to aid himself, and it didn't escape his notice that Turner didn't offer him a hand. But he had a sneaking suspicion it had less to do with malice and more to do with respect for that pride he was so concerned about just moments earlier. Just fractionally, Turner rose in James Norrington's esteem.

The trip through the ship was made in silence, the crewmen they passed acknowledged Turner respectfully with a nod, or small greeting, as one would their Captain or senior officer, further giving credence to his earlier assumption that the man in question had yet to verify. He, on the other hand, was mostly ignored, with some tossing him aggrieved, cautious and occasionally down right nasty looks. Obviously this crew hadn't taken kindly to his entrance, or his duel with their Captain.

Eventually they arrived above and made their way to the quarter deck. A crewman at the wheel nodded to his Captain but didn't look their way again, but to James there was something about him that struck him as familiar. Then something that had been nagging at him since he'd first come up from below in his white hot rage, finally clicked into place. The ship was clean. Free from slime and sea creatures. Wood, brass and iron all clean and cared for, and not one man among the crew had sported even the tiniest amount of coral. And if you took the coral away from the crewman at the wheel…

"What do you see?"

"Excuse me?" James replied with a frown, his mind jolted from its musings by Turner's blunt question. When the boy, (although whether or not he could still refer to William Turner as a boy anymore remained debatable), nodded out over the deck, James turned and let his sea-man's eye scan the decks.

"Impressive ship… and you keep her cleaner than your predecessor." James finally responded. "But you could use a few more hands on board." A pointed silence filled the air and James could have slapped himself for walking into _that _one. "_Ahh_, so _this_, is the part where you ask me if I fear death."

"You said it before," Turner shot back, "It's a little late for that."

"But you _are_ going to offer me a choice." James concluded.

Turner nodded. "But not today."

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James stood on the foaksul deck and leaned heavily on the railing watching the sun rise. It had been two days since his talk with Turner, two mostly uneventful days where he'd wondered the ship, trying to talk to the other passengers who'd either not seen him at all as they wondered around the ship like solid ghosts, or merely given him small peaceful looking smiles as he tried to garner their attention.

The only excitement had come a few hours earlier when a call had come from a lookout. A soul had been spotted in the water. He'd stood back and watched as the crew pulled the ship along side and hooked what had turned out to be a boy no older than fourteen or fifteen from the water. He'd watched Turner approach the boy and seen the fear in the youths face. He'd heard the Captain offer the boy the choice, a choice the Captain had yet to give _him, _and he'd seen the boy accept.

He'd almost shouted out then, called to the youth to say no, not to sign over his soul. But he hadn't, he'd hesitated and the moment had passed. And why had he hesitated? Because he wasn't so sure that agreeing to serve was such a bad thing, not now, not under Turner. He couldn't put his finger on why though; he couldn't work out what was so different. Before, he wouldn't have considered it; in fact he had a vague memory of actually rejecting the offer. The mere idea had been repugnant, like signing your soul over to the devil himself for a hundreds years of slavery before being cast straight into hell for you troubles.

But now, now he found himself wondering what would happen if he did serve?

A plank creaked behind him.

"If you've come to apologise, I wouldn't bother." James said without turning, but well aware of who was behind him. The man had been watching him all night, and James had wondered when he'd make his move.

"So you did recognise me then." Bootstrap mused aloud. "I wasn't sure."

"One tends not to forget ones murderer." James shot back pointedly, and then sighed. "But as I said, I wouldn't bother apologising, I've moved past it."

"See now, that's where I think you're lying," Bootstrap offered. "Else wise we wouldn't have found you 7 days hard sail from the source. No soul at ease wonders that far or gives the Captain such a headache trying to find him, without good cause. Besides, I didn't come to apologise. I've come to offer answers, answers to questions you won't ask my son."

James frowned. "Your son?" Bootstrap turned and looked back towards the quarter deck where Captain Turner stood at the wheel and James blinked. "Bill Turner, you're Bill Turner."

Bill laughed. "For my sins."

James cast the man a sideways look. "Indeed… so Mr Turner, what answers do you think you can give me?"

"Ask your questions." Bill shot back.

James looked back over the sea as he thought. He had hundreds of questions, but choosing the right ones was the key to getting the answers he really needed. What was the choice? Where did you go when the hundred years was up? What happened if you said no? What exactly was the duty he'd heard the crew talking about? Why was Turner Captain? So many questions. Raising his eyes skyward he took a deep breath and decided. "What is the Dutchman, really? And before you say it, I know she's a ship."

Bill chuckled, giving a nod to the former admiral to acknowledge the worthiness of the question. "The Flying Dutchman, for as long as she's been bound to the duty, has been the end of hope. That last spark before the darkness."

"Must all pirates talk in riddles?" James groaned. Just what he needed, more riddles to add questions to the myriad that were already swirling around his tired mind.

Bill studied the man before him for a long moment, his expression serious. "The Dutchman is time. For whatever reason you have for needing it, the Dutchman and her Captain offer it. Maybe you just aren't ready yet, maybe you'd want to face your god and judgement with a better hand than the one you dealt yourself in life, or maybe you just want to avoid the judgement altogether. Whatever your reason, time is what the Dutchman has, and that's what she can offer you. Time and service."

"So you're telling me that the Flying Dutchman is the promise of redemption." James gave Bill an incredulous and disbelieving look. At the back of his mind his conscience twitched. He'd said those words before, and that redemption had led him here. That redemption, or damnation wrapped in pretty ribbons as he'd come to think of it, had led him to betray the woman he professed to love, the man he'd sworn to serve and finally resulted in the deaths of scores of innocent sailors and marines. And all in the name of one man's greedy ambition aided by his own desire to return to favour. Redemption sounded nice, but he could be forgiven for being just a tad sceptical.

Bill only shrugged, unaware or choosing not to comment on the former admiral's inner turmoil. "Some chose to see it that way, some don't."

"And if I chose not to serve?"

"Then you must make your last journey, as all souls must, to face your judgement and whatever awaits you beyond." Bill replied. When Norrington said nothing in reply to this Bill made to walk away but hesitated. "For what it's worth, I am sorry I killed you. But only because it was your blade that found itself killing my son."

As Bill Turner walked away, James let out a breath and slumped against the railing. He thought only for a second on the older man's last comment before filing it away to think about later. He had more pressing issues to attend to.

Redemption, time, hope, god and judgement. Was he ready to make that final journey? To face whatever judgment was in store for good or ill? Or did he want the chance, the time, to prove to all and himself that he once was and could become once more, a good man?

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Time was running out. Will sat at the desk in his refurbished cabin twirling a pencil around in his fingers, barely conscious of the rolling of the ship which had increased in pitch over the last hours. It had been five days since they picked up their last passenger, seven since James Norrington had come aboard. He had neglected his Duty where Norrington was concerned and he knew it, he just couldn't seem to take that final step.

He'd planned to ask him when he took Norrington up on deck, had hinted at least, at the fact that he wanted the man on board. But he hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. Part of the reason, he was sure, was some ingrained propriety left over from his early life. The William Turner who'd toiled as a blacksmith's apprentice in Port Royal would never have dreamed of putting himself in a position of authority over the great Commodore, then Captain Norrington. Even now, he still held a respect for the man, be it grudging and tainted by recent events and choices.

But that didn't mean Will couldn't see how his addition to the crew would be of benefit. He needed more men; his crew could not endure as they were. Well technically they could, and eventually more would come aboard, that was the way of things, but that didn't mean he liked it, or was happy with an unhappy crew. But more than that he needed another officer on board, someone he could trust. And that was the crux of it wasn't it? The Captain wanted the able seaman to serve, to come aboard as a man willing to do his duty and to give and take orders. But Will Turner the man, he was less clear on his motives.

His pride had been hurt by the man, and still now his insecurities plagued him; those of an angry young man in love faced with a rival, and those of a new Captain faced with an experienced seaman.

But when all was said and done he would have to give Norrington his choice soon or he would be lost to the locker for all eternity. His father was right, his pride and his indecision could easily lead him down Jones' path and once the line had been crossed he didn't know if there was a way back.

Jones had corrupted the duty by more than just neglecting the world below and hunting ships above. He'd also neglected the choice, twisted it for his own ends by not giving it to some at all, and denying the rest the truth, thereby tricking them into swearing an oath for one hundred years of service. And once sworn that oath had to be honoured. But that wasn't how it was supposed to work. The choice was service true, but the tenure was only until the soul was ready to face what lay beyond. Both captain and crewman would know when that time had come, and the soul would be released from its bonds.

And that was where he'd failed Norrington, because not only had he failed to give him the choice, he had also failed to correct the assumptions that all who'd died during Jones' time still held.

Thankfully his father had rectified that first failure and now it was his turn. So why was he still hesitating?

"Captain?"

Will looked up at the young face that was peering around the door to his cabin. Scott Timmons, the boy they'd picked up not five days ago. Will raised an eyebrow in query and the boy swallowed thickly.

"Sorry to disturb you Captain, but Mr Turner told me to tell you we're in sight of the source sir."

Will gave his thanks for the message and pulled himself from his seat, out of the Cabin and onto the deck. If there was ever a time the Dutchman needed her Captain, it was now. Above him clouds churned angrily and the air was filled with a fine spray. The water beneath the ship rolled fiercely, and all around them tiny boats, one soul apiece, bobbed alarmingly as they floated past, their passengers oblivious.

The Dutchman's passengers however, were not so unaware; they'd been gathering at the bow for hours and now clustered together, waiting. All except one, the one for whom time was running dangerously short. James Norrington was moving unsteadily towards him, the swell making walking in a straight line near impossible.

"What's going on?!" He spoke loudly, both men only now realising there was a roar in the air.

"The source!" Will replied in an equally raised voice as he lifted his chin to indicate the view ahead. James turned to follow his look. There in front of them, stretching up and to the left and right as far as the clouds and watery mist would allow the eye to see, was water. Vertical water. A Giant, roaring churning waterfall. "The Worlds End!"

"Dear god in heaven." James gasped in alarm. They were heading straight for it. It was madness, surely if they hit that they'd be smashed to pieces, if the currents, undertow and back-roll of the water hitting the surface didn't take them down first. "Tell me we're not going any closer."

Will smiled. "Fine. We're not going any closer."

James' eyes widened. "You're lying."

Will smiled again before turning away from him. "All Hands to Stations!" Will took the steps to the quarter deck two at a time, fully aware that Norrington was following close behind. Taking the wheel a crewman who'd been manning it, Will began to shout his orders to the crew.

Meanwhile James looked around him in horror. He knew what each order would do before it happened, and the end result was not reassuring. They were tacking, against both current and wind, towards the great falls, the roar of the water getting steadily louder. "THIS IS MADNESS!!"

Will just laughed. This was his favourite part of the duty. The thrill of it, after days or even weeks of smooth easy sailing on mill pond seas with constant wind, the rush of the source was a welcome reprieve. Helped of course by the knowledge that it couldn't really harm them, they were after all, already dead. Oh sure there were a few bumps and bruises and the first time he'd done it, it had terrified him so badly that if he'd had a heart he was sure it would have stopped. But that was easy enough to get over once you came through whole and mostly unscathed.

They were getting closer; the sea was wild now, the ship pitching up and down through the enormous waves. They bucked violently and Will gripped the wheel hard to steady himself. They were almost at the base of the falls now. He could see where the tiny boats were rising up through the crashing water and heading on their journeys beyond. The spray from the falls was like a blanket of water, not man aboard ship could remain dry here. Will pushed the water from his eyes and spun the wheel, changing the direction of the last tack. This one would bring them parallel with the falls.

"ALL HANDS! PREPARE TO GO BELOW!!!"

"BELOW???" James yelled beside him and Will turned to him. Spinning the wheel once more to put them head on to the falls, the Captain caught James' eye.

"JAMES NORRINGTON! WILL YOU SERVE?!"

James looked to the wall of water that was almost touching the bow sprit, then to where the passengers were disappearing one by one from the bow of the ship only to reappear on the boats that rose untroubled from the foam, and then finally back to Will.

"YES"

Will grabbed his hand then, pushing it onto the wheel. James got the message and gripped it tight as Will did the same and faced forwards.

"DOWN!!!"

The order was echoed by all on board, but the sound was lost in the roar of the waterfall as the ship pitched down and water came up to meet them.

Fin

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Questions? Comments? Review, ask and say. 


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